A third of my life - 12 years

Last week Wednesday marked 12 years since my first transplant. Exactly a third of my life so far. A third of my life with no constant mucus trying to smother you. No persistent lung infections. No problems with being underweight. No super disgusting cough or coughing fits where you can't catch your breath. And most of all, 12 years of not being dead. So much love for this donor family.

Those lungs also enabled me to have a successful second transplant. During my rejection they were stable, and allowed me to stay physically strong and reasonably healthy otherwise. So they really behaved very well.

But back to the present.... joined my local neighborhood running club yesterday, and the first run is tomorrow. Sooooo nervous. But I have to do this in preparation for the National games in June, as well as to push myself... otherwise I'm stuck in the same gym rut and struggle to push myself. I think I have breathing-related PTSD. As soon as I get too out of breath I feel like I need to stop because this is bad. Even though it's normal to get out of breath when you run! So I need to run for a bit longer before I give in to walking.

I shared the above poem on Instagram a while back, it's written by a CF guy who has also had a lung transplant. It's quite direct but touches me very deeply. I can totally relate.